


Bitter Water

by sashawire



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Fae, Cinderella Elements, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/F, Non-Linear Narrative, Self-Esteem Issues, in the sense that this is VERY flashback heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashawire/pseuds/sashawire
Summary: The cat outside her window doesn’t blink. It’s sitting there, watching, two red circles tracking her pacing across the concrete floor....When Homura was fifteen-going-on-sixteen, her parents gave her to the fae in exchange for a grain of silver and the promise of a peaceful life. This is about the beginning, middle, and end of that story.
Relationships: Akemi Homura/Kaname Madoka/Sakura Kyouko
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	1. Prologue: Take What You Can, Give If You Must

**Author's Note:**

> Work title is based on the song “Bitter Water” by The Oh Hellos. Chapter title is a lyric from “When The Chips Are Down” from the musical Hadestown.
> 
> **Content Warnings:** Slavery, self-esteem issues, mentions abuse of a position of power, specifically abuse of servants, blood, starvation, ableism, specifically in regards to heart conditions, parental emotional neglect.

The cat outside her window doesn’t blink. It’s sitting there, watching, two red circles tracking her pacing across the concrete floor. Fur, a flat white; it shines like ash in a fire-pit against the black of night, against the solid darkness eclipsing Homura’s cell.

She pretends not to notice it, for a few minutes, hoping for the problem to resolve itself. When she finally makes eye contact, the cat’s eyes flash brilliantly. She takes a step back, and her heel crunches against broken glass. She barely feels it.

The cat rubs itself against the bars on her window. “Hello,” it says.

Homura doesn’t answer, her fingers choosing to work anxiously at a knot in her hair. She hasn’t cut it in years. They never offer her any hairbrushes.

(How can the cat even  _ touch  _ the house?)

“You’re a human,” the cat continues pleasantly. “I can’t imagine you’re here by choice. Hm. Well, choice of your own.”

Homura’s jaw nearly creaks when she loosens it. “Go away,” she replies, hoarse. She hasn’t talked since Kyoko left, doesn’t speak unless spoken to. She is never spoken to.

Its face does not change. “Don’t you want to leave?”

“No. Go away before I call the owners.”

“We both know you’re not going to do that,” the cat licks its lips, revealing a slip of needle-shaped teeth. Homura kind of wants to punch it, right in its delicate little face.

“You’re not a cat,” she says.

“I’m not a cat,” the cat agrees.

Homura’s fingers keep hopelessly tearing at the matting in her hair.  _ Go away go away go away, _ the little girl in her mind keeps chanting.  _ Go away, I’ve had enough of you. _

(When she was first brought here, the only thing keeping her from giving up, hiding in a corner and rocking back and forth and letting that little girl take over, was Kyoko.

“Get up,” Kyoko would snarl, hauling her to her feet like a particularly pathetic ragdoll. “They’re gonna kill us both if you won’t work, and I’m not dying—” And on, and on. This was before Homura learned to tune her out when she got particularly rant-y.)

“What,” she begins without hearing herself, “will it take to get you to leave?” If they come downstairs while she’s talking to this thing, they’ll be furious.

The cat sat, and began licking its front paw nonchalantly, never taking its eyes off Homura. “All I want is for you to hear me out,”

_ Hear me out, _ Homura knows what that means.  _ Hear me out, _ I’ll offer you the sweetest deal you’ve ever heard and stab you in the gut the second your hand unclasps mine. Homura, Homura isn’t  _ stupid. _

Homura steps back further this time, and the broken glass she had been sweeping up digs into the soft, uncalloused arch of her foot. Liquid warmth begins pooling around it.

“Hear me out,” The cat repeats, “and I will leave.”

Homura shakes her head until she is dizzy. “No,” she wants to yell like a stubborn child at a market square, but all the air is trapped in her lungs and she can barely force out a wheeze. “I won’t hear any of your sweet talk.”

The cat slips through the bars of the window.

The cat  _ enters the house. _

The house.

“You—” Run, she should run, if they find out she let this thing waltz into the house they'll  _ kill _ her—

“I can release you from their contract,” the being that is not a cat says. “They'll never lay a hand on you again.”

“I’m not a child. I know there’s a catch.”

“You’re eighteen.”

Her age doesn’t surprise her. Days and nights are surprisingly easy to keep track of through the sunlight dragging itself along her cell floor. Tally marks are scrawled across the walls in swarms, swarms that Homura has to count one-by-one then multiply by five when she feels like puzzling out the date. “An adult.”

“Of course,” the cat-thing purrs. It circles once, dodging the broken glass splinters on the ground neatly. “Mature enough to know; the catch is an integral part of the deal for any faerie smarter than a river-stone.”

Homura’s hands drag themselves down her skirt, tugging at the strings, rolling the frayed fabric between her fingers. An old nervous tic. “Tell me what the deal is, first.”

The cat stands up, stretches slowly, contentedly. It pads over to her sleeping cot, leaps up onto the bedroll on top of that.

(She and Kyoko used to take turns. One of them would sleep on the bedroll on the floor, the other on the bare-bones cot. The cot was elevated and protected from low drafts, but the bed roll was soft.

On Kyoko’s last night there, they shared. It wasn’t something they’d done before, because the cot wasn’t wide enough for one of them to sleep risk-free, let alone two. But on that night, Homura had clung to Kyoko with all the strength in her fragile finger-bones, white-knuckling the scratchy fabric between Kyoko’s shoulder-blades.

And Kyoko, who bared her teeth to anyone she found too soft-shelled for her liking, who Homura would bet her life has never pulled an honest punch, physical or verbal, in her life, who pulled glass shards out of Homura’s torn skin with a growled “you gotta be careful,  _ dumbass, _ or they’ll get rid of you and I’ll have to do all your chores on top of mine,” who braided the dark strings of Homura’s hair into a crown encircling her head when the creatures upstairs shouted at her for having it too long, who pretended to teach Homura how to do a braid-crown herself when she really just wanted to tell stories about her little sister, who, who, who—

And Kyoko wrapped one arm, skeletal from malnourishment and colourless from lack of sunlight, around Homura, pulling her forward until they were flush, almost one person.

Don’t leave me, Homura wanted to beg. Don’t leave me alone. If she still remembered how to cry, she would’ve. Instead, she blinked, slow, staring at Kyoko’s collarbones without seeing.

“I’m coming back for you, idiot,” Kyoko grumbled, stretching upwards to rest the soft underside of her jaw against the top of Homura’s head. “Not gonna leave you here.”

An icy breeze spurted through the window-bars, seemingly making a beeline for the two girls sharing a bed-cot. If Homura could’ve pulled Kyoko any closer, she would’ve. “I know. If you take too long, I’ll break out and hunt you down myself.” The lie was sticky between her teeth, clinging to the back of her throat. 

“You’re meant to be the smart one here.” Kyoko flicked the back of her neck. “You’re not gonna do anything to piss them off until I get back. Just wait for me.”

Kyoko wasn’t coming back here. Not for anything, and especially not for Homura.)

The not-cat unfurls itself on top of the dirty bed-roll, yawning daintily. It’s getting white fur all over the fabric. “Far, far away from here, a ball is going to be held tonight.” It begins. “You will be in attendance of this ball. The invitation and dancewear is already taken care of.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Kaname Madoka and Sakura Kyoko will also be there.” Homura’s hands went numb. “What I’m presenting to you is a challenge: if you succeed, you will have freedom in its entirety, no strings attached.”

“If—what—” Homura swallowed, sorted the words out— “and if I fail? You’ll take me back here?”

“That’s a silly deal. There’s no net profit in it for me.” It rolls onto its furry stomach and lays its head between its paws. “No, if you fail, you become indentured to me.”

“For life?”

“For as long as I see fit.”

“And the—”

“The challenge is this,” The not-cat’s tail flicks back and forth. “You are to receive a confession of love from either of the aforementioned people, before midnight on the third night of the ball.”

Homura doesn’t bother laughing, though the impulse possesses her briefly. “No, what’s the real challenge.”

“If you need me to write it down for you, I can do so.”

“I could just… tell one of them what’s going on, ask them to tell me they love me for the sake of the challenge but…” Homura swallows, and dully finishes, “that’s the catch, isn’t it. They have to mean it. That does make things harder—”

“The catch is the ball itself is a masquerade.” The not-cat interrupts. “Neither Kaname nor Sakura will recognize you.”

“And they have to mean their confession?”

“Did I say that?”

“Don’t be slippery. Answer the question.”

“They don’t.”

“Do Madoka and Kyoko still remember me?”

It slinks to its feet and stretches, leaning backwards, then forwards. “Do you want the nice answer, or the full answer?”

“The truth.”

“Full it is, then. It’s been seven months since Sakura has last seen you, two years since Kaname has last heard from you. Those intervals are well past enough time for you to become a distant memory in anyone’s mind. But I have not and will not erase their memories.”

Homura fists the fabric of her skirt, and tries her last card. “A deal with the fae is how I ended up here in the first place.” Convince me, she tells it.

“A deal with fae, indeed. Your  _ parents’ _ deal.” It pauses to lick a stripe down its front leg. “And they certainly profited, didn’t they? A life free from the embarrassment of having a defective child, the one thing they’d wanted since it all started a little over eighteen years ago. All at the low, low price of the damaged goods in question.”

The tell-tale moan of a foot on the top step of the basement stair has Homura’s knuckles turning white.

“And now I am offering you a deal of your very own.”

One foot thumps down a stair. Then the other. One-and-two. Foot-and-step.

“You might be the prize in this game, but you’re also a player.”

Foot-and-step. Foot-and-step. Only a couple left; Homura knows the number by heart and body and soul.

“Aren’t you tired of other people making decisions  _ about _ you?”

Homura grabs one of the not-cat’s paws in a grip that should break it like a half-wilted stem, and shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

“I accept the terms. I accept the terms of your deal!”

It blinks for the first time since she met it, and red light shines through the bars of the window, from the glass on the ground, around the silhouette of one of her (now former) fae owners, standing in the doorway, eyes flashing murderous multi-colours.

“That’s all you had to say, Akemi Homura.”

*

(When Homura was younger, her parents kept her indoors most of the time. They said it was for her own good; she couldn't run around too much or she'd fall even more ill, they said. There was also the unspoken horror of,  _ what if the neighbours see you? _

But she was allowed to sit out in the garden, with its high walls and deep shadows. The sun reached and reached and could only warm a sliver of the grass even at noon, blocked by the solid overhang of the back porch.

Homura would pick up one of the small, wooden chairs, the rickety one with one leg slightly shorter than the other three, and sit in that oasis of sunlight. It was honey on glass; a warm, rich bassline hidden amongst the cold, reedy tones of the rest of her life.

She was fourteen when she got the first letter.

A little slip of folded paper, small enough to be mistaken for a moth in the right lighting, fluttered down from the east wall and landed on the grass.

Homura, eyes closed, head tilted back to drench herself in the last golden paint-stroke of sunlight, didn't notice it until evening, when the sun had fallen below the walls and the air was still and dim.

The paper caught her eye, a flash of white in the otherwise darkened garden, and she plucked it curiously.

_ Hi!  _ It read, in girlish kanji.  _ I'm your neighbour. I live in the Kaname house, right next to yours! I've heard that you guys have a daughter, but I've never seen her before. If you're the daughter reading this: my name's Kaname Madoka. I'd love to talk sometime! _

Homura folded the note neatly and placed it in the fire once she went inside.)


	2. Night One, Part One: Catch My Breath and Fill that Breath with Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homura exhales, closes her eyes to block out the mirror, sets her shoulders back. “When do we leave?”
> 
> “Now.” The faerie slinks away to hover by the door, turning back to stare at her, “I’ve fed and watered and clothed you, I don’t know what else a human could possibly need.”
> 
> “One more thing,” Homura moves to hold up her hand, but feeling the trembling of it at her side, decides instead to tuck it behind her back. “Got a name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from the song “Red River” by AlicebanD.
> 
> **Content Warnings:** In the same vein as last chapter; mentions of slavery, implied verbal & physical abuse, past injuries, self-depreciation. Aside from that; sensory overload, mild panic attacks, and near-fistfights.

Homura puts her hands in her hair, sliding it through her fingers until they hit a matted spot, can’t progress any further. She tugs, just for good measure, just for luck.

The carriage floor clunks and grumbles underneath. She peels her bare, grimy knees off the boards and tucks them against her chest, staring at the fae across from her. It watches, unperturbed, right back.

“Do you want a comb?”

Homura grinds her teeth (in a way that would’ve made Kyoko knock her ankle and tell her to quit it, would’ve made Madoka go  _ Homura-chan, that’s bad for your jaw—) _ and grits out, “No. Thanks.” Its face barely moves and its voice doesn’t waver, but it’s mocking her. “Do you have any knives? Give me one.”

The faerie doesn’t say anything, but a rustling sound comes from the front of the carriage. The hooded figure holding the reins pulls something metallic out of their robes and slides it towards Homura, who edges away slightly. Their face remains shadowed.

“Scissors.” Homura picks them up and holds them to the waning sunlight. “You don’t trust me.”

“You don’t need a knife for anything scissors cannot substitute,” the faerie still hasn’t acknowledged the carriage driver.

“I’m sure,” Homura mumbles, and brings the scissors up.

*

(After lessons with her private tutor, Homura was allowed to sit outside again. It had rained the night before, so the grass was dewy and the porch was slick. Homura hefted up the same chair as always, uncaring of the growing dampness in her shoes and socks.

The clouds above wouldn’t let a single flare of sun break through, but that was alright. As long as she could sit outside in the cool wetness, Homura was content.

As she watched dew bead and slide down a blade of grass, another letter slipped over the wall.

_ Hello! I was just wondering if you received the letter I sent over the wall yesterday. Please knock twice on the wall if you did, and three times if you didn't. (✿◠‿◠) —Kaname Madoka (your neighbour!) _

Homura hesitated, but timidly rapped her knuckles twice against the rock wall, hoping it wouldn't be heard anyway through the thick stone and moss.

Her hopes were dashed as three excited knocks trilled back at her. “Hello!” A girl’s voice called. “I’m Madoka!”

“Sh-h! My parents will hear!” Homura yelped back. “Let me write you a note!”

She hurried inside and scrambled for paper and writing utensils. Sitting in front of a blank white expanse, she again scrambled, this time for words.

_ Hello, _ she wrote, as neatly as she could in her naturally scrawling handwriting,  _ My name’s Homura. I’m the daughter of the Akemis, next door. —Akemi Homura. _

Homura managed to toss it over the wall after three tries, and leaned against the cold, dank moss, wondering why she was even doing this. Her parents would be furious if they knew she was talking to the neighbours, or generally just letting anyone know she existed.

After a few, agonizing minutes of Homura hating herself (why did she clarify that she was from the family  _ next door _ on the note? Of course Kaname knew she was next door! That’s where the note was coming from!) another note floated down and landed on her shoulder, alerting Homura with a rustle.

_ Hi, Homura-chan! There’s a ladybird on the paper I’m writing on right now. I think she flew over from your garden. I drew a little picture of her, see? →  _ **⬲** _ —Madoka _

It was the beginning of a friendship. A long, memorable friendship.)

*

She twists her hand, flexing her wrist back and forth as she fiddles with the links. Silver bracelets trap themselves against both of her arms, just loose enough to provide circulation, but constricting until they’re near impossible to remove once they’re fit on.

“I think you got the wrong size,” Homura mutters to the faerie lounging on the bed behind her. The cabin they arrived at is tiny and entirely utilitarian, sink and cupboards slotted flush against a single bunk and bedside locker, the latter of which is stocked with Homura’s apparent outfit.

The faerie raises its head. “It’s meant to look like that. You’ve got your shirt buttons in the wrong holes.”

Homura curses under her breath, curses the buttons, curses the fae, and curses the shaking of her fingers as she tries fixing her mistake. She fixes her collar and glances at herself in the mirror. Sleeveless blouse and a pleated skirt, respectable, but certainly not as glamorous as what’s expected of ball-goers. The faerie seeked to rectify that by adding silver chains wrapping down her arms and threading between her fingers.

(Kyoko would complain about the flashiness and the limited mobility in the elbows. Homura wonders, for a split second, what she will be wearing tonight, but cold fire floods down her throat and into her hands at the mental image, so she turns her mental gaze away.)

The shirt is tight around her chest and stomach, and she has to inhale a little shallower than is comfortable. Still, it’s nothing next to trying to breathe with a broken rib.

(“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…”

Homura flickered open her eyes to a voice she knew, a voice she wanted to curl towards and into on instinct alone. She shut them again, and tried the whole ‘moving’ thing for a split second before broken-glass pain spiked from her abdomen and the back of her eyelids blew starbursts.

“If you try moving right now, I’ll kill you myself,” Kyoko tightened her hand around Homura’s. Her voice came from beside and slightly below Homura’s head.

You won’t have to, Homura almost told her. They have you beat to it. But Kyoko might start yelling if she said that, so she just hummed.

It was quiet for a moment, just Kyoko’s naturally rushed breathing and Homura’s ragged ones, until she recognized the surface she was lying on.

Homura sucked in a deep breath, and kicked her legs, keening faintly as the pain in her ribs went from red to white. She shoved her palms flat against the cot, eyes squeezed shut, preparing to lever herself upwards.

Kyoko grabbed her shoulders, pinning her back down. “What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?!”

“It’s—” her eyes burned— “it’s your turn on the cot.”

The grip on her shoulders actually went slack for a moment as Kyoko stared at her, expression hidden in the dark. Then, she collapsed forwards, head thumping against the cot, careful to avoid Homura’s abdomen.

“You’re the dumbest person I know.” She mumbled, and Homura graciously ignored the way her voice shook.)

“One more thing before we leave,” the faerie moves to stand against her shin now, gazing up at her with big, blank eyes. “Check your skirt pocket.”

Homura obeys, and her fingers twitch against smooth fabric. She pulls it out, unfolding it to reveal; a black masquerade mask, silver thread adorning the edges in little artful dips and loops.

The faerie at her feet keeps watching her, so she slips the mask on, twisting the ribbon into a bow at the back of her head. (She would help her owners lace up their gowns, sometimes, and it was tricky business. A lot of lace and a lot of threading; one moment of carelessness and she might have to go back and redo half the corset, which would annoy them, which would make them—)

“Take a look at yourself, why don’t you.”

In a fantasy book, the faerie might say these words with a sort of gentle encouragement, soothing peppermint balm to the protagonist’s bird-jittering soul. Or maybe even a soft smugness, ‘I told you so,’ ‘you said you couldn’t do it but look at you now, look at you  _ now—’ _

In this universe, they’re said with perfect neutrality. A throwaway suggestion before the faerie starts nibbling at the grime between its toes. Still, Homura hasn’t turned down an offer so far.

She looks in the mirror, and wishes for a smile, or a blush, or a look of dainty astonishment as she takes herself in, the diamond-in-the-rough, finally polished.

Astonished isn’t the right word. Homura sinks her teeth into the pad of her thumb, bread and cheese curdling in her stomach, and a stranger contorts her face back at her. Someone with clean, brushed hair dripping down to her shoulders, enough money for the chains squeezing her forearms and enough status for the invitation laying on the bedside locker behind her.

There’s no way Madoka or Kyoko are going to recognize her.

(Might a stranger have more luck in pulling a confession of love than Akemi Homura?)

Homura exhales, closes her eyes to block out the mirror, sets her shoulders back. “When do we leave?”

“Now.” The faerie slinks away to hover by the door, turning back to stare at her, “I’ve fed and watered and clothed you, I don’t know what else a human could possibly need.”

“One more thing,” Homura moves to hold up her hand, but feeling the trembling of it at her side, decides instead to tuck it behind her back. “Got a name?”

“Don’t we all. But what do you take me for?” The faerie’s eyes gleam. “You can call me Kyuubey.”

*

_ (Hello. I don’t think the ladybird came from our garden; we don’t get a lot of insects over here. —Akemi Homura. _

_ Why not? (◕︵◕) I’d be very sad without all the little beetles and bugs in my garden. —Madoka _

_ There isn’t a lot of sunlight in my garden, so we don’t get a lot of flowers. So we don’t get bugs. —Akemi Homura.) _

(At the end of the day, Homura would burn all the notes sent by Madoka. She wondered what Madoka did with hers.)

*

As Homura steps up into the carriage, the driver, still sitting where Homura last saw them hours ago, turns and offers her a sheet of fabric.

“So you don’t get your clothes dirty,” Kyuubey supplies. The driver’s face is still shadowed, only two pinpricks of reflected moonlight shining where their eyes might be. Kyuubey continues, this time directed at the driver, “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

They hasten back to the reigns.

*

_ (What do you do for fun, usually? I hardly ever see you out and about! (◕︿◕✿) —Madoka _

_ Hello. I don’t often leave the house. My parents are… protective. I spend most of my time in the garden. What about you? —Akemi Homura. _

_ Me too! I spend a lot of the time in the garden. I like to draw the wildflowers. —Madoka _

_ There are hardly any wildflowers around here. I would love to see your drawings someday. —Akemi Homura.) _

*

Homura thumbs the corner of the invite envelope until it’s dog-eared. The castle looms over her, this great cliff of grey stone, blotting out the stars.

“Don’t lose that invite,” Kyuubey says. The words are as passive as its face, but Homura can feel sweat gathering around her collar and wrists. She nods.

Upon joining the bottleneck entry line, the sweat starts pooling in the lines of her hands, sticking her inner shirt to her back. She wipes her free hand on her skirt, and prays the scented oils Kyuubey shoved at her would cover it up if she starts smelling.

So many people. Why are they breathing all over her? Jostling each other? It’s a cloudless night in the middle of autumn, but Homura has to pull her collar away from her throat to breathe, trapped in the heat of everyone else.

She’s surrounded by these great glitzy ballgowns, piled hairstyles adorned with real diamonds, personalities bigger and brighter than the sun. She’s so small.

“Miss?” The doorman asks, and oh, her shoulders are up around her ears.

Homura presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, gathering herself. “Yeah, I—the invite’s here, let me just—” she hands it over, inspecting it as subtly as possible for sweat stains.

The doorman glances at it, nods, and Homura’s shoulders droop. “Hold onto that if you’re wanting to come the next two nights.”

And then she’s inside.

It’s funny; there are long tables quivering under their loads of finger-food and chandeliers slipping golden light across the walls and there’s sweet, smoky perfume and music lilting from  _ somewhere, _ and— 

—And suddenly, Homura wants to be back in that basement under the fae’s house, where it’s quiet and dark and no one’s  _ looking _ at her.

At the entrance to the ballroom, Homura blacks out, or dissociates, or something, because she blinks and then she’s flattened against a nearby wall and staring blankly out into the crowded dance-floor. “I can see…” she mouths, sucks in a breath, then tries; “I can see my shoes, my skirt, this stupid parquet floor, um, a tablecloth, the walls. Okay—”

(“—Now tell me four things you can feel,” Homura said softly, sitting cross-legged. She dragged her broken fingernails across the stone floor.

“I hate this. This—this is stupid.” Kyoko glared at her with red-rimmed eyes, the rest of her face still hidden behind her knees.

Homura scratched at a notch in the ground. “It’s supposed to be grounding. A…” she swallowed. “A friend taught it to me once.” It was one of the few of Madoka’s notes Homura kept, folding it up tight and pulling it out whenever the panic came on and she was  _ sure _ she was going to die.

Kyoko lifted her head to rest her chin on her knees. “I can… whatever, fine. I can feel the bed-roll, my hair, this manky old blanket, and—it’s cold in here, I guess.” She shoved her head away from Homura’s gaze. “What  _ else _ do you want me to list?!”)

“...I can hear violins, and clicky shoes, and people are fighting.” Homura clamps her mouth shut as the arguing voices grow louder and tenser. They’re coming from a nearby banquet table, and Homura keeps staring at her shoes.

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to put those  _ back!” _

“I have an invite, if you’re asking! I’m here to escort someone. Is this food not for the  _ guests?!” _ Homura’s head whips upwards so fast her neck cracks.

“Guests  _ do not _ have the right to pilfer handfuls of canapés!” The snooty-looking man hisses. “Empty your pockets immediately!”

“Or what?” And—well. Homura brings a hand up to cover her manic smile. The way she looms over him whilst still chewing faux-nonchalantly, isn’t that such a  _ Kyoko _ thing to do.

The man steps back, tugging at his collar. “I-I won’t hesitate to call security.”

“But you haven’t already?” Kyoko smirks like she’s about to make the winning move in one of her and Homura’s endless games of tic-tac-toe. She swipes a chocolate from the nearby table. “Wouldn’t wanna make a scene, little man.”

A vein on his forehead bulges. “Put. That. Back!” He knocks her hand, and the sweet flies out of it.

Homura’s wincing before it even hits the ground. Alas, as it does, it cracks unevenly down the middle, rose-coloured filling puddling on the floor. The music keeps lulling, the dancers keep rustling, the chatter keeps echoing, but somehow, everything has gone silent.

There’s a split second, as Kyoko and the man stare at the chocolate on the ground, where Homura’s tempted to cover her eyes. But no—curse her, she’s curious.

A blink, and Kyoko is on him, collar fisted. “The  _ hell _ was that,” she hisses, pulling him up to his tip-toes. “That was worth someone’s yearly rent.”

The man squints. “It’s—it’s just a chocolate. There are dozens more right next to you.”

Kyoko stills, and Homura braces herself to see her free hand come flying into this man’s face, but instead, she shoves him away, sneering, “I don’t know what I expected.” The man squawks, arms windmilling. “The only reason your teeth aren’t down your  _ throat _ right now is because I promised someone I wouldn’t get kicked out. Now. Scram.”

Apparently, he doesn’t need to be told twice.

Homura follows his scampering into the crowd, and when she looks back, Kyoko is staring at her.

They lock eyes, and Homura’s fingertips go numb.

_ Do you see me? Do you know me? Tell me you remember me and I was important to you and you’ll yank me away from this awful place and— _

“What are  _ you _ looking at?” Kyoko demands, stalking over, and Homura’s stomach shrivels. “Enjoy the show?”

“I… I—” She’ll defend herself like she always does, match Kyoko’s temper with her own chilly reason until she calms down, and they’ll talk, or escape from here to sit comfortably in silence. She opens her mouth to tell Kyoko everything, but what comes out is just a wretched,  _ “Kyoko.” _

(“Right here, stupid,” Kyoko said, arm around her shoulder, knees knocking as Homura shoved her face into her neck, trembling. “I’m not going anywhere.”)

“How the hell do you know my name?” Up close, Kyoko’s cheeks are fuller and her skin tanned and her hair brushed, even if it certainly isn’t neat. Behind her red and white mask, her eyes are brighter. She’s changed.

“Kyoko I—” the words prickle in her throat— “it’s me, I’m—”

And she doubles over coughing.

Once she straightens up, Kyoko’s watching her, mouth tilted in that puzzled way Homura remembers, when Kyoko was tallying up days or recalling whose turn it was to sleep on the cot. Homura would laugh at her scrunched-up face.

“Sorry,” Homura croaks, “I don’t know… listen, I’m—”

And she’s wracked again, for even longer this time. She has to wait precious seconds to catch her breath between coughs—she’ll have to take her heart medication soon—and she clenches her fists.

Homura’s not stupid. She knows it’s not a coincidence she keeps cutting herself off before she can say her own name.

_ So that’s what the  _ real _ catch is, huh? _

_ I’m going to strangle that fucking cat. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes, the chapter numbers changed, and I'm really sorry about that ! But school assignments & shit and I already have a bunch of long chapter wips (we're talking 12k+ words per chapter) so i want to update this one more frequently & with shorter chapters. thanks !)
> 
> tumblr: @brightwritesstuff


	3. Night One, Part Two: Just Remember Not To Love Me When I Disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You, uh. Having fun down there?” 
> 
> Homura doesn’t move, praying for the problem to resolve itself. “Just. Fine. Continue on with your business.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from “The Bidding” by Tally Hall.
> 
> Content Warnings: Parental emotional neglect, trauma flashbacks to past physical abuse, small mental breakdown, mentions of meal skipping (due to poverty), mentions of starvation and other physical neglect, brief mention of vomiting, swearing.

(Homura toed out of bed, towards her window, to see if she could get a glimpse of the Kanames. She caught a flash of pink climbing into the waiting carriage, and that was all.)

_ (Hello. Do you go to school? —Akemi Homura. _

_ Yes! I go to the school in the next town over. It's a bit of a journey, but I don't mind. Do you not? —Madoka _

_ I am tutored at home. —Akemi Homura.) _

(At the dinner table, her parents asked why she'd been using so much paper recently. Homura said she was worried she'd fall behind in her studies, so she was doing extra make-up work.

It was quiet after that.)

_ (Do you read often? I spend most of my time reading books. —Akemi Homura. _

_ Not really, but my mother always says I should start reading more! Can you recommend me some books, please? —Madoka _

_ Sure. On the back of this page, I've written a list of my favourites. —Akemi Homura. _

_ Whoa, that's a lot! (◕△◕✿) I don't know if I can read them all, but I think we have some of these titles at my house. —Madoka) _

*

Homura presses the back of her hand to her mouth, counts  _ in for four, hold for seven, out for eight, _ (“Momo got—gets panicky sometimes, I learned it to calm her down, breathe, you gotta breathe—”) until she can physically wrench her gaze towards Kyoko’s face.

“My name isn’t important. I’m not supposed to say,” Dark and mysterious. That’s one angle to go for.

Kyoko’s mild puzzlement dissolves into a harder expression, chin jutted out, brows drawn together. “If you say so,” she scoffs. One wrist jolts slightly; that means she wants to cross her arms, but  _ doesn’t  _ want to be the first to do so. (Homura bites the inside of her cheek; don’t smile, don’t laugh at her, don’t smile.)

Consciously, Homura wipes her palms on the front of her skirt and picks her own brain apart for greetings and ice-breakers and  _ pick-up _ lines—but some outside force bends her into a bow, someone else’s lips saying, in the softest, cleanest voice that could possibly squeeze through the thorns in her throat, “Good evening. How are you?”

(“Lower, lower—stop.”

Bits of hair slipped out of her braids and tickled her nose, but she didn’t dare unclasp her hands to scratch it.

Her mother gave a disappointed ‘hm’ (It may as well have been a sneer, if her mother would ever bring herself that low.) “Your legs quiver like a newborn deer. Work on that.”)

Her legs don’t tremble now. She wonders what happened.

Kyoko harrumphs a little, stepping back as Homura straightens. “Whatever, weirdo.” She bounces up onto her toes, looking over the swarm of dancers. “...I’m gonna go. Got someone I need to—Hey!”

And Kyoko’s face…

It  _ lights up. _

The shift was barely a twitch in the angle of her posture, but to Homura, it might’ve been tectonic plates. The corners of her eyes curve, the line of her lips thawed, the slope of her shoulders a little more gentle.

Homura, back pressed against the wall, screws her eyes shut. She turns to where Kyoko is looking. Doesn’t open them.

The soft eyes.

The eased mouth.

The relaxed stance.

Who could Kyoko possibly be looking at?

Homura opens her eyes. Parts her lips and, silent underneath the babble of the crowd, breathes:

“Madoka.”

A lot changes, in two years’ time. But not enough. 

It’s hard to make out from a distance, but Madoka’s taller, maybe. Hair plucked into pigtails, stuffed into something frilly and pink and so  _ very _ Madoka as she struggles to wedge herself through the gap between the wall and the group of people Madoka’s apparently too shy to ask to move.

Madoka breaks free, flustered, picking up her skirts. She nearly slams into a silent waiter offering champagne glasses, overcorrects and pinballs into the wall. She scrunches up her skirts, away from her feet, then seems to think better of it and try to smooth out the subsequent wrinkles. All the while, hurdling, a bird falling-flying from the nest, a star smearing itself across the sky, momentum—

“She’s—coming. Towards us,”

The words hang in the air for a second before Homura realizes they came out of her mouth. Kyoko shoots her a weird look that probably means,  _ what are you even still doing here. _

Hah.

And Madoka keeps coming closer. She doesn’t loom, can’t loom—Homura’s eyes deceived her before, she really hasn’t grown much physically since fifteen—but she has the presence of a breaking sun either way. One of her shoes is dangerously close to coming unbuckled. She has a dark scuff against one of her gloves.

And she’s  _ there, _ a vision in pink and white, flushed all the way down to her neck and out to her ears as she covers her eyes and mumbles, “Kyoko-chan, please tell me no one saw that,”

Kyoko twists her face into that pretending-to-mock-you-but-not-really expression. “Are you trying to make me a liar, pink?”

“You could be nicer about it,” Madoka turns to Homura, running her thumb along the rim of her glove. “I—um, sorry about that display. Very crowded here, right? And warm. Really warm. I’m Kaname Madoka,”

Homura swallows. “You can call me—”

(A drawing of the two of them in magical girl outfits, side by side, smiling guilelessly at the viewer. Little dots for eyes and wonky lines for mouths, Madoka always said she was better at figure-drawing than faces.

_ Gretchen, _ Madoka had scribbled underneath the drawing of herself. Homura shrugged, picking up her pencil. If they were going for foreign-sounding aliases…

In the blank space beneath her own magical-girl-sona, Homura carefully wrote—)

“Lily.”

_ (Honor. Innocence. Purity. _

Hah.)

Madoka repeats the name, rolling the foreign syllables around her mouth, just a little stiff. She was always better at English than Homura.

“Not her real name,” Kyoko mutters to Madoka. Then, to Homura; “What are you, a spy or something?”

“I’ve got a lot going on.”

“I can tell.”

Madoka wraps one hand around Homura’s bare arm and squeezes, opening her mouth to—to say something Homura can’t hear because—

_ hands— _

—because her vision whites out and her ears ring and all she can think about is red hand-shaped marks on her arms and inhuman fingers twisted in her hair, and she wants to cringe away from the voice,  _ their _ voice  _ screaming _ in her face, even though a part of her  _ knows _ this is stupid, knows no one is actually yelling, but she can feel hot breath and spittle on her cheeks all the same—

“—go of her, Madoka,” The faint alarm in Kyoko’s tone only causes Homura’s heart-rate to spike further.

She slides her eyes towards Madoka, sticky, as if suspended in jelly. A small crease forms between Madoka’s eyebrows, above her mask, and she drops her hand from Homura’s arm immediately. “Are you okay, Lily-san?”

Homura goes to answer, but finds she can’t unhook her jaw. Can’t pry her fingers off the hem of her blouse. Especially can’t lower her shoulders from their rock-hard protective hunch.

The most she can do is blink, slow and dull, as the other two stare at her.

“...A lot going on,” Homura mumbles finally. “I have to go.”

She turns silently in place and wanders away, skirting around the crowded dance floor. Neither of the other two girls call after her, but she can only imagine the looks they’re sharing.

Weirdly enough, now she feels fine. Homura has lived with whatever’s broken in her brain for a while now, and mini-panics aren’t particularly novel. Even panicking over people she knows wouldn’t hurt her, like Kyoko, and now, apparently, Madoka. Because Homura couldn’t be  _ more _ damaged goods.

But she’s fine, now. It’s just a little stuffy in here. She ambles out of the ballroom, through some double doors that must lead to a bathroom or something, because the guards don’t give her a second glance. She turns a corner. Then another.

It’s quiet, suddenly. Deafeningly so after the hubbub of the ballroom. She must have taken a wrong turn from the bathroom route at some point. There’s no one along these corridors.

She pushes open an unassuming door. It reveals an empty drawing room.

Homura closes the door behind her.

Her knees crumple.

She hits the carpet palms-first. It’s soft; she curls her fingers into it, clawing.

Breathe in. She tucks her face into the gap between her wrists.

Breathe out. Her nose brushes the carpet.

In. She must look like a weirdo. Half-sprawled, face-down on the floor of this fancy drawing room.

Out. Like a wailing heroine on the cover of a novel.

In. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are clacking together.

Out. She’s going to rip up the carpet if she doesn’t ease her grip.

In. But she was  _ fine. _ Just a moment ago, she was fine.

Out. Wasn’t she?

“You, uh. Having fun down there?”

Homura doesn’t move, praying for the problem to resolve itself. “Just. Fine. Continue on with your business.”

Kyoko doesn't leave. Instead, there’s the click of a door closing, footsteps further into the room, and a  _ thump _ that Homura wishes she didn’t recognize as the sound of Kyoko plopping herself onto the floor. “Gonna have to try harder than that, ‘Lily-san’,” The mocking quotations around her alias are audible.

With everything left in her body, Homura lifts her head to glare. She isn’t crying, the absolute smallest of respites. Still, her mouth trembles with the effort of not hurling all over this very nice, very expensive carpet. “What gave me away? Maybe my way of showing contentment is collapsing onto the floor of a stranger’s house.”

“You’re shaking like a tree in a damn hurricane,”

“Mind your own business.” (This isn’t exactly the best way to extract a love confession, Akemi.)

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

In the moment of quiet that follows, Homura pushes herself up to flop against the door behind her. Her legs, spread awkwardly in front of her, are pale and emaciated. Kyoko clearly notices.

As for Kyoko herself. Homura presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, and allows herself a three second long, mildly hysterical smile. Kyoko clearly isn’t made for the level of luxury the two of them are surrounded by. She picks at the white frills on the edges of her overcoat, glancing around at the gilded curtain-poles and velvet cushions.

(“I’d skip meals, sometimes,” Kyoko shrugged, tearing at a bread crust. “For my sister, or my dad. Momo was—is still growing, and Dad worked, so. You know.”

Homura hadn’t known, really. The house she’d grown up in might’ve been cold and formal, but she’d had three meals a day, a good education, and a soft bed to sleep in at night. Before, she’d never had any reason to pass up food when hungry.

She watched Kyoko now, though, grey-tinted, getting gaunter every day, passing out the moment they were allowed a moment of rest, and Homura’s own lump of bread felt like it would do far more good for Kyoko than herself.

She’d offer, but past attempts said it would only make Kyoko snap at her.)

When Homura had touched Kyoko’s face down in their basement cell, it was all hard cheekbones, gaping hollows where flesh should’ve been, jaw jutting out from her neck at almost a right angle.

Not so much, now. Still tough around the edges, but bulkier, lean muscle instead of raw bones. Could she still recognize Kyoko by the shape of her face alone?

Maybe that’s a creepy thing to think about.

Homura clears her throat. Something sticks, so she tries again. “So. You and Kaname.”

“What about us.” Kyoko eyes her.

“You two are. Partners?”

“If by ‘partners’ you mean ‘bodyguard and the body being guarded’ then, sure.”

Bodyguard, huh. Not an unsuitable occupation. “If my bodyguard looked at me the way you look at Kaname, I’d… honestly, I have no idea what I would do. Awkwardly fire them and hire a new one. So. Once again. Nothing there?”

Kyoko scoffs. “Nothing I’m gonna admit to a complete stranger. Why do you care?”

Because if they are romantically involved, this makes Homura’s ‘challenge’ go from ‘very hard’ to ‘nigh impossible’. “I’m a nosy person.”

“I can tell.” Kyoko shifts so that she’s cross legged, facing Homura, back against one of the ornamental couches. “Speaking of bodyguards, I’ve noticed you’re lacking in that department. Or just happen to have a very, very crappy one.”

“Plenty of people don’t have bodyguards.”

“Not at this level of establishment.”

“What, you’re networking me now? I’m not on anyone’s hit-list.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, and you’re not gonna be doing much fighting in that getup,” Kyoko nods to the chains on her arms. “You just went spiralling over someone touching you casually for about two seconds, so you definitely know one or two dangerous people.”

“Yeah, well, I have other things to worry about.”

“No shit.”

Homura scratches idly at a graze on her knee. “Maybe I should just go down your route. What does it take to become someone’s bodyguard?”  _ Why aren’t you with Momo and your parents? _ Half of anything Kyoko talked about down in that basement was her family.

“Easier than you think.” Kyoko shrugs. “But the bodyguard thing’s only a side-gig, anyway. Madoka and I, we… we’re working on something, together.”

“Care to share it with the class?”

“If I wanted you to know, I wouldn’t have called it ‘something’, would I?”

Homura makes a ‘hmph’ noise, bringing her knees up so she can tuck her chin on top of them.

Kyoko continues, “It’d probably be easier for you to just hire a damn escort, anyway.” She glances at Homura’s arms once again, skinny and feeble.

“What makes you think I have the money for that?”

“You think they just hand out invites to this party like flyers?” Kyoko raises an eyebrow, then pauses. “Wait… are you even supposed to be here? You were looking pretty fucking suspicious earlier, hanging around the corner of the room like that.”

“Oh, so you’re asking if I snuck in so I could ‘pilfer handfuls of canapés’? You really think someone would do something like that?”

Kyoko’s lips flatten. “You heard that whole thing, huh.”

“Me and half the ballroom,”

“Whatever. You’re dodging the question. How the hell’d you get an invite without status?”

“A friend.”

“...Won’t tell me her name, found hiding in an area off-limits to guests, says she got her invite from an unnamed, mysterious ‘friend’...” Kyoko ticks them off on her fingers one-by-one. “You’re not the most suspicious person I’ve ever met, but I gotta say you’re moving impressively through the ranks.”

“You just happen to ask all the questions I specifically can’t answer,” Homura huffs.

“Questions people don’t normally ask, like ‘what’s your name’ and ‘how did you even get in here’?!” Kyoko leans forward, eyes glinting, teeth bared, “Alright, fine. Let's see what you  _ can _ tell me. Why were you watching me fight with that guy over the chocolate, earlier?”

“You two were being really loud.”

“Favourite colour?”

“Black. You?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“...Red?”

“She’s clever. Why did you say Madoka’s name like that, when she was coming over?”

So Kyoko heard that. Damn. “Like what?”

“Don’t play dumb. Like you… knew her.”

“She looks like someone I was friends with as a kid. It threw me off.”

“Doesn’t tell me how you knew her name,”

“Same first name, funnily enough. Maybe they’re related.”

“Really.” The corners of Kyoko’s eyes harden and her nose scrunches; her ‘I don’t believe you,’ face. “How’d you grow up, then? Where are you from?”

“Two very different questions,”

“Let’s go with the second one.”

Homura squirms for a second, feeling Kyoko’s eyes on her. Dodging the question will only solidify her untrustworthiness in Kyoko’s mind.

(Usually, when they had guests over to the house—which was almost never, her parents didn’t rub elbows with common folk, and having elites catch sight of their spindly little daughter was even worse—Homura would stand with her parents, half-hidden in shadow, seen and not heard. Neither, if it could be helped.

This time, something was different. Homura had been ordered to stand on the opposite side of the entry hall from her parents, alongside these… guests. Guests with shiny eyes and long cloaks and smiles too wide and thin for their faces.

Her mother didn’t look at her as she asked the guests where they would be going.

One of them chuckled, reaching out to squeeze Homura’s shoulder. They squeezed a little too hard for a little too long—not dissimilar to how her father would do so—purring, “I wouldn’t worry, pet. But… if you  _ must  _ know, we’re taking her west.”)

(“Do you know where we even are?” Homura asked, gazing out the cell window. “We’re… somewhere west, right?”

Kyoko exhaled, turning over to face Homura and the window. “Before you showed up, I spent all my free time trying to figure that out.” She sat up on the cot. “If you look really hard, you can see some of the trees outside. The kind that usually grows in, like, mountain-y places.”

In her mind, Homura skimmed over maps of the region she’d studied during tutor sessions. “That tracks,” she said. “It means it’s isolated out here, too. Even if we managed to escape…”

“...There’d be nowhere to run.” Kyoko finished lowly.)

“I—” Homura rubs her thumb against the back of her other hand, averting her gaze— “I’m from over west. You know, the mountains? Not the most hospitable pla—”

She’s cut off by a flurry of movement. Kyoko scrambles up from her seated position and is basically on top of Homura in the space of two blinks. Their noses are inches apart. Kyoko’s breath fans across Homura’s face. “The mountains?”

“Um, yes, the mountains!” Homura forces the heat from her cheeks. Kyoko’s hands don’t touch her arms; good, because she really doesn’t need another freak-out right now. “Would you get off me?!”

“The  _ western _ mountains? You said you grew up there?” Kyoko’s eyes are bright, and they  _ burn. _

Homura wiggles as Kyoko plants her hands on either side of Homura’s head. “I said I’m  _ from _ there,”

Kyoko takes a deep breath. She’s agitated, in a way Homura’s only ever seen a couple of times. “But you know the area, right? How to get around, what’s going on, where certain people live—that sort of thing?”

“Not… really?” It’s not the answer Kyoko wants. Her glare gets harsher.

“Well, do you know someone who  _ does?!” _

“What the hell do you want?!”

Kyoko growls in frustration, leaning back. She’s still straddling Homura, but doesn’t seem to be particularly concerned about it as she runs her hands through her hair, eyes darting around like a caged animal.

She opens her mouth to say something, but Homura stops paying attention because as Kyoko leans away, Homura is given a full view of the window behind her, this great big maw of glass taking up half the wall.

It allows for a breathtaking view of the night sky, spiralling galaxies and a big fat moon hung suspended between them, but Homura doesn’t particularly care about those. She’s a little too distracted by the two red circles, watching her.

Kyuubey doesn’t say anything, but she knows why he’s here.

Time’s up.

“I have to go,” Homura shoves Kyoko off her the rest of the way. “I have to…”

Kyoko lands on her backside, scowling upwards as Homura clambers to her feet. “Wait a sec, I need your  _ help—!” _

“I’ll be here again tomorrow night,” Homura fixes her collar and makes sure her invite is still wedged in her pocket. “I’m… sorry. Just, find me tomorrow night.  _ Please.” _

Uncharacteristically, Kyoko shuts her mouth with a  _ click _ of her teeth and nods. “You’d better show up, asshole.”

“I promise. I promise.”

With that, Homura reaches back, turning the door handle and stumbling sideways into the hallway. Away from Kyoko. It’s quiet out there.

She digs her ragged nails into her palms and does. Not. Cry.

*

The driver watches her as she climbs into the carriage, head tilted. Wishful thinking, but they look almost sympathetic.

“Eyes on the reigns,” Kyuubey says neutrally, and the moment splinters and fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing Kyoko and Homura's talk: my god girls i love the banter but can you two get to the fucking POINT ...
> 
> bitches will be like "yes madoka FINALLY shows up in the flesh it's about DAMN time" and then give her about 5 seconds of screentime & 3 lines of dialogue and. i am bitches.
> 
> (Madoka and Homura's 'magical girl aliases' are named after their witch forms - Homulilly and Kriemhild Gretchen. We'll hear more about them next chapter.)
> 
> tumblr: @brightwritesstuff

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @brightwritesstuff !


End file.
